


Mockery Of Reason

by MilesFuckedUpshur



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesFuckedUpshur/pseuds/MilesFuckedUpshur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles’ reality was turned on it’s head no sooner than he got into the asylum, the true extent of which he wouldn’t realize until he shut down Billy Hope’s life support. Now, he’s running. He’s alone. He has no allies and a corrupt mega corporation breathing down his neck. He’s not sure he can do this, but he knows he has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hi hello so this was actually a drabble series that was started on my blog per the request of one of my partners, and then we decided it might be cool to expand into a full blown fic. So right now updates are sporadic because 1; college and 2; I'm sort of going by prompts for different scenarios to find him in. But mostly college. So cool hi thank you, I hope you enjoy!

He had been shot, once. An investigation gone south, a security guard pushed too far. He had been lucky it was only his shoulder. A fellow journalist had been around, hit the guy—distracted him and then hauled Miles’ ass out of there. He had to lay off the more hands on approach for a while, alternated between interviews and repairing computers until his shoulder was healed enough to lift his weight.

That was **one** bullet.

It didn’t compare to thousands of them ripping through him at once. That was an average of six thousand bullets a minute per gun. At least five of them. His vision went hazy, less from the pain and more from the fact every organ in his ventral cavity was turned into a fine, vaguely flesh-colored paste. He sank into darkness to an orchestra of screams.

When he returned to the conscious world, the pain was subdued by the static that washed over his body in waves. And then the static was subdued by anger; rage.

Pain never stopped him. Neither did fear. All it did was piss him off.

His mind was lost in a whirlwind of static and blood and _rage_. He came to in the morning light. Dark eyes burned until they squinted, then shut entirely, watering from ~~the pain~~ the harsh light. It was a stark contrast to the inside, cold, crisp air thick with the smell of pine trees and cottonwood—a welcome break from the gore.

Miles took one precarious step forward, then another until he was leaning on one of the military humvees left over from the tactical team. It was a three hour drive to the nearest city and he’d bet his last fingers that Pueblo would be _crawling_ with armed men by the time he got there.

Lock picks were fished out of one of his pockets. If he had any hope of surviving further, he had to get one of those vehicles running. He hoped to hell someone had left the keys inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rage is a hell of an anesthetic."

Thunder rolled outside, warning of an oncoming storm. The journalist paid it no mind, standing shirtless in front of the bathrooms wide mirror. Stacked on the counter were an array of supplies, things he’d grabbed with shaky, poorly bandaged hands in the first second hand store he found. Thank god he still had his wallet on him, still had the cash, because everything else he owned was inside his jeep when the fucker took it.

His reflection was distorted to that he scarcely believed it was his. Wounds torn wide seeped with black like an oil spill and mingled with blood where assault rounds had torn him to pieces. Shredded skin and chunks of things that might have been muscle or bone and he wasn’t even sure they were _his_.

Another wave of nausea hit him and Miles lurched forward, caught the countertop and sent pain up his arms trying to stay on his feet. Ultimately, his knees buckled, and he couldn’t make it the small space to the toilet before he heaved, lost the contents of his stomach. Blood splattered filthy tile, stood in stark contrast to the off-white, and dizzy from the bloodloss, he knew it he should have been dead. Bits of gore that was probably a kidney, or a lung, sat amidst swirling black and he _wasn’t sure if it was real_ , or another machination of an ailing mind. Black crept up his arms with the sensation of a billion crawling insects.

He retreated until his back hit the wall, trying to brush away the spreading black. Desperation grew, and brushing escalated to clawing until his arms were bleeding and _it still didn’t go away_. A sob escaped him, despair and terror and pain welling up until he thought he would simply collapse in on himself. The gesture hurt, _breathing_ alone made his head swim from the pain.

Blood streaked his face as Miles hid his face in his hands, smeared from the gash nearly cleaving his features in two. Muffled sobs threatened to teeter off into wails of pain, and he trembled, gasping for breath.

“I can’t do this. God, I can’t—” He hadn’t prayed in years. Not since… fuck all, he thought, not since he lost his father. “Why did I have to survive? Fuck the truth. Fuck everyone. It’s not…” 

The words died on his tongue before they could fall from bruised and split lips, as his mind caught up with itself, as the _suggestion_ sank in and his blood boiled. Rage welled up in his chest, seemingly with the rage of thousands of others, like voices echoing in the back of his mind. Miles hauled himself to his feet, hands finding purchase on the counter, holding on until his knuckles turned white.

His reflection was a living shadow, smoke rolling off of him like a physical manifestation of ~~their~~ his anger, and pin pricks of white glared into the mirror until slowly but surely, the swarm recede and he could see his own flesh again, dark brown eyes boring holes into the reflective glass. Pain seared through his head, starting at the base of his skull before, like a spark, it lit and spread through gray matter, searing and white hot. Something popped, he thought, and then blood poured from his nose. He bared his teeth, feral and hostile like a cornered animal, his lips curled in defiance, of his reflection, of whatever gods were listening, of _Murkoff_.

“I will _not_ be reduced to this. I _will not_ pray, or plead, or _beg_ to a god that _does not care_ ,” through gritted teeth now. “I will _bury_ them for everything they’ve done to us.”

Miles wasn’t sure when he blacked out, only that he came to with the taste of old copper in his mouth and the promise to tear Murkoff’s throat out.


End file.
